Volume 1, Issue 3 & 4 - Diverse Voices Quarterly

Finally, the waitress. Frank put the gift back on the table and ordered two
coffees. “Would you like anything to eat?” asked the waitress. She reminded Frank of
his youngest daughter, Lindsey. Same hair, anyway. Or Sally, when they first met.
“No thanks,” said Frank.
“I’d like a club sandwich,” said Judith. “Extra mayonnaise, please. And extra
pickles.” The waitress dutifully noted this on her pad, relinquished the menu, smiled,
and moved on, blonde ponytail bouncing in her wake.
Judith extended her left index finger, wiggled it, and then used it to push the
box a little closer to Frank.
“What exactly happened to Stu,” he said, “if you don’t mind my asking. Did he
run off with his secretary?”
“Open it,” said Judith. The waitress set two cups of coffee on the table. Judith
took three creamer packets from the caddy, stirred them in, and then added two pink
packets of the sugar.
“If you put that in the oven for forty minutes,” joked Frank, “it would come out a
cake.”
Judith smiled and took a sip. “Birthday cake. For you.”
Frank looked around for a clock to make sure he was still on schedule. This was
turning into a good fairway story. “Judith,” he said, “tell me a little bit about yourself.
Where do you live? Do you have kids? How long were you and Stu married?”
Judith winced at each question, then stared at her coffee. She said nothing.
Frank waited. “Judith?” he asked in a low voice.
“What are you talking about?” Judith waved her hand at him and laughed. “It’s
your birthday, not our anniversary. You only have to remember how long we’ve been
married once a year; just one little day a year.”
Frank looked around the room again. Like any diner anywhere, the interior
tables were empty; half the booths were occupied, mostly by single men or couples
who stared out the window or at a point slightly to one side and beyond their spouses’
faces. Like he and Sally used to do before she left him.
Okay, so Judith was a bit of a nutcase. What were his options? He could just get
up and run out the door; that would be easiest. Or, say he had to use the restroom
and not return. Regardless, he had to leave in ten minutes or he’d miss his tee time.
“Come on, open it,” Judith spun the box on the table, next to his coffee cup.
Frank picked it up. It wasn’t very big—cologne? Cuff links? No one used cuff links
anymore. He had a half-dozen pair at home, in a velvet-lined case that his
grandmother gave him for his bar mitzvah. He’d never had the heart to throw them
out. The box couldn’t be a bomb or anything; it was too small. Besides, she was sitting
Diverse Voices Quarterly, Vol. 1, Issue 3 & 4 47